Weird Detectives (62 page)

“I’m impressed. That was quick thinking.”

“I . . . I’d already looked into that stuff before. Until that last stretch where he was nice I was planning to leave him. I’d already talked to my lawyer, and I filed for divorce by the end of that week.”

“What did David do?”

“At first? Nothing, except for some hysterical messages on my voicemail. He didn’t try to break in, nothing like that. But after a while I started seeing his car behind mine when I was going to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a nurse supervisor at Sunset Grove, the assisted living facility in Jenkintown. Right now I’m on the four to midnight shift. I’ve spotted David’s car a lot, sometimes every night for weeks on end. I’ve seen him drive by when I’m going into the staff entrance, and his car is there sometimes when I get back home, cruising down the street or parked a block up.”

“What makes you think he’s planning to do more than just harass you?”

“He’s said so.”

“But—”

“He didn’t say or do anything at first . . . but over the last couple of weeks it’s gotten worse. About three weeks ago I came out of work and stopped at a 7-Eleven for some gum, and when I came out he was leaning against my car. I told him to get away, but he pushed himself off the car and came up to me, smiling his charming smile. He told me that he knew who I was and what I was and that he was going to end me. His words. ‘
I’m going to end you.’
Then he left, still smiling.”

“Did anyone see this?”

“At one in the morning? No.”

Convenience stores have security cameras, I thought. If this thing got messy I could have her lawyer subpoena those tapes. I had her write down the address of the 7-Eleven.

“That’s how it went for a couple of weeks,” she said. “But last night he really scared me.”

“What happened?”

“He was in my bedroom.”

“How?”

“That’s it . . . I don’t know. The alarms didn’t go off and none of the windows were broken. I heard a sound and I woke up and there he was, standing by the side of my bed. He’s really thin now and as pale as those Goth kids at his club. He stood there, smiling. I started to scream and he put a finger to his lips and made a weird shushing sound. It was so strange that I actually did shut up. Don’t ask me why. The whole thing was like a nightmare.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t?”

She hesitated, but she said, “I’m positive. He pointed at me and said that he knew everything about me. Then he started praying.”

“Praying?”

“At least I think that’s what he was doing. It was Latin, I think. He was saying a long string of things in Latin and then he left.”

“How’d he get out?”

“The same way he got in, I guess . . . but I don’t know how. I was so scared that I almost peed myself and I just lay there in bed for a long time. I don’t know how long. When I finally worked up the nerve, I ran downstairs and got a knife from the kitchen and went through the whole house.”

“You didn’t call the cops?”

“I was going to . . . but the alarm never went off. I checked the system . . . it was still set. I began wondering if I
was
dreaming.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Why are you so sure?”

She fished in her purse and produced a pink cell phone. She flipped it open and pressed a few buttons to call up her text messages. She pointed to the number and then handed me the phone.

“That’s David’s cell number.”

The text read:
Tonight
.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me see what I can do.”

“What
can
you do?” she asked.

“Well, the best first thing to do is go have a talk with him. See if I can convince him to back off.”

“And if he won’t?”

“I can be pretty convincing.”

“But what if he won’t? What if he’s . . . I don’t know . . . too crazy to listen to reason?”

I smiled. “Then we’ll explore other options.”

The Crypt is a big ugly building on the corner of South and Fourth in Philadelphia. Once upon a time it was a coffin factory—which I think would have been a cooler name. Less trendy and obvious. The light snow did nothing to make it look less ugly. When we pulled to the corner, Mrs. Skye pointed to a sleek, silver Lexus parked on the side street.

“That’s his.”

I jotted down the license plate and used my digital camera to take photos of it and the exterior of the building. You never know.

“Okay,” I said, “I want you to wait here. I’ll go have a talk with David and see if we can sort this out.”

“What if something happens? What if you don’t come out?”

“Just sit tight. You have a cell phone and I’ll give you the keys. If I’m not out of there in fifteen minutes, drive somewhere safe and call the name on the back of my card.” I gave her my business card. She turned it over and saw a name and number. Before she could ask, I said, “Ray’s a friend. One of my pack.”

“Another private investigator?”

“A bodyguard. I use him for certain jobs, but I don’t think we’ll need to bring him in on this. From what you’ve told me I have a pretty good sense of what to expect in there.”

As I got out my jacket flap opened and she spotted the handle of my Glock.

“You’re not . . . going to
hurt
him,” she asked, wide eyed.

I shook my head. “I’ve been doing this for a lot of years, Mrs. Skye. I haven’t had to pull my gun once. I don’t expect I’ll break that streak tonight.”

The breeze was coming from the west and the snow was just about done. I squinted up past the streetlights. The cloud cover was thin and I could already see the white outline of the moon. Nope, no accumulation. Typical Philly winter.

I crossed the street and tried the front door. Place didn’t do much business before late evening, but the doors were unlocked. The doors opened with an exhalation of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. There was probably an anti-smoking violation in that. Something else to use later if I needed to go the route of making life difficult for him.

It was too early for a doorman, and I walked a short hallway that was empty and painted black. Heavy black velvet curtains at the end. Cute. I pushed them aside and entered the club. Place was huge. David Skye must have taken out the second floor and knocked out everything but the retaining walls of the adjoining properties. The red and white maximum occupancy sign said that it shouldn’t exceed four hundred, but the place looked capable of taking twice that number. Bandstand was empty, so someone had put quarters in to play the tuneless junk that was beating the shit out of the woofers and tweeters. Whoever the group was on the record they subscribed to the philosophy that if you can’t play well, you should play real goddamn loud.

There were maybe twenty people in the place, scattered around at tables. A few at the bar. Everyone looked like extras from a direct-to-video vampire flick. The motif was black on black with occasional splashes of blood red. White skin that probably never saw the sun. Eyeliner and black lipstick, even on the guys. I was in jeans and a Vikings warm-up jacket. At least my sneakers and my leather porkpie hat were black. Handle of my gun was black, too, but they couldn’t see that. Better for everyone if nobody did.

The bartender was giving me
the look
, so I strolled over to him. He knew I wasn’t there for a beer and didn’t waste either of our time by asking.

“David Skye,” I said, having to bend forward and shout over the music.

“Badge me,” he said.

I flipped open my PI license. “Private.”

“Fuck off,” he suggested.

“Not a chance.”

“I can call the cops.”

“Bet I can have L-and-I—Licenses and Inspections—here before they show. Smoking in a public restaurant?”

Another smartass remark was on his lips, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He was paid by the hour and this had to be a slow shift for tips. I took a twenty from my wallet and put it on the bar.

“This isn’t your shit, kid,” I said. “Call your boss.”

He didn’t like it, but he took the twenty and made the call.

“He says come up.” The bartender pointed to another curtained doorway beside the bar. I gave him a sunny day smile and went inside.

There was a long hallway with bathrooms on both sides and a set of stairs at the end. I took the stairs two at a time. The stairs went straight up to his office and the door was open. I knocked anyway.

“It’s open,” he yelled. I went inside; and as I looked around I hoped like hell that the office décor was not modeled after the interior landscape of David Skye’s mind. The walls were painted a dark red, the trim was gloss black. Instead of the band posters and framed “look at who I’m shaking hands with” eight-by-tens, the walls were hung with torture devices and S-and-M clothes. Spiked harnesses, leather zippered masks, thumbscrews, photos from Abu Graib, diagrams of dissected bodies. A full-sized rack occupied one corner of the room and an iron maiden stood in the other, one door open to reveal rows of tarnished metal spikes. The only other furniture was a big desk made from some dark wood, a black file cabinet, and the leather swivel chair in which David Skye sat. He wore a black poet’s shirt, leather wristbands, and a smile that was already belligerent.

“The fuck are you and the fuck you want?”

The man was a charmer. I could just taste the charisma his wife had mentioned flowing like sweetness from his pores.

I flipped my ID case open. “We need to have a chat. It can be friendly or not. Your call.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

So much for
friendly.

“That whore send you?” he demanded.

I smiled but didn’t answer.

He had a handsome face, but his wife was right when she said that he’d lost weight. His skin looked thin and loose, and he had the complexion of a mushroom. More gray than white.

“Did my wife send you?” he said, pronouncing the words slowly as if I’d come here on the short bus.

“Why would your ex-wife send me?”

His eyes flickered for a second at “
ex
-wife.” I strolled across the room and stood in front of his desk. He didn’t get up; neither of us offered a hand to the other.

“She makes up stories,” he said.

“What kind of stories?”

“Bullshit. Lies. Says I slapped her around.”

“Who’d she say that to?”

He didn’t answer. He did, however, give me the ninja secret death stare, but I manned my way through it.

“What are you supposed to be?” he said.

“Just what the license says.”

“Private investigator. Private
dick
.”

“Yes, and that was funny back in the 1950s. Why do
you
think I’m here?”

“She’s probably trying some kind of squeeze play. The club’s doing okay, so she wants a bigger slice.”

“Try again,” I said, though he might have been right about that.

“Oh, I get it . . . you’re supposed to scare me into leaving her alone.”

“Do I look scary?”

He smiled. He had very red lips and very white teeth. “No,” he said, “you don’t.”

“Right . . . so let’s pretend that I’m here to have a reasonable discussion. Man to man.”

Skye leaned back in his chair and stared at me with his dark eyes. It was a calculating look, and I’m sure he took in everything from my slightly threadbare Vikings jacket to my cheap black sneakers. Put everything I was wearing together and it would equal the cost of his shirt. I was okay with that. I don’t dress to impress. Skye, on the other hand, smiled as if our mutual understanding of my material net worth clearly made him the alpha.

I smiled back.

“What does she want?” he asked.

“For you to leave her alone.”

“What is she afraid of?”

“She thinks you’re trying to kill her.”

“What do
you
think?”

“What I think doesn’t matter. I’m not a psychic, so I don’t know whether you’re trying to kill her or if you’re playing some kind of mindgame on her. Whatever it is, I’m here to ask you to lay off.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I asked real nice.”

He smiled at that.

“Because it’s illegal and I could build a harassment case against you and you could lose your club and sink a quarter mil into legal fees. Because I know inspectors who can slap you with fifteen kinds of violations that will hurt your business. I can have your car booted by
accident
three or four times a week, every week.”

“And I could have you killed,” he said, the smile unwavering.

“Maybe,” I said. “You could try, and I might fuck up anyone you send and then come back here and fuck you up.”

“Think you could?”

“You really want to find out?” When he didn’t answer, I took a glass paperweight off his desk and turned it over in my hands. A spider was trapped inside, frozen into a moment of time for the amusement of the trinket crowd. I knew he was watching me play with the paperweight, wondering what I was going to do with it.

I put it back down on the desk.

“Really, though,” I said, “how long do we need to circle and sniff each other? We don’t run in the same pack and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do, who you are, or how tough you think you are. We both know that you’re either going to stop bothering your ex-wife and go on with your life, or you’re going to make a run at her—either because you have some loose wiring or because I’m pushing your buttons by being here. If you back off, we’re all friends. I’ll advise my client not to file a restraining order and you two can let the divorce lawyers earn their paychecks by kicking each other in the nuts.”

“Or . . . ?” he asked. Still smiling.

“Or, you don’t back off and then this is about you and me.”

“Nonsense. You’re no part of this. This is about me and—”

I cut him off. “I’m
making
this about you and me. Maybe I have a wire loose, too, but once I tell a client that I’m going to keep her safe, I take it amiss if anything happens to her.”

“
Amiss
,” he repeated, enjoying the word.

“But that’s a minute from now. We’re still on the other side of it until you give me an answer. What’s it going to be? You leave her alone? Or this gets complicated.”